Rob

Darlene sneezes as soon as he walks into the squat. “You stink of sandalwood!”

Rob blinks and cautiously sniffs his own arm. “No I don’t. What, you mean my soap?”

“You wash too much,” she grumbles. “How should I teach you to track when you’ll only smell yourself?”

“I’ll get some unscented,” he says, glancing around. It’s more a monument to dry rot than a room, but Darlene seems satisfied living here for now. She and her associates are as disgusted by his lifestyle as he by theirs, he thinks, as Salem enters horribly, cleaning his teeth with a straight razor.

A story about Rob, published on Thursday, September 2, 2004, at 7:08 pm.